Heart and Soul
by Pandorama
Summary: Fate had brought them both this way. With a purpose and a challenge, and she knew in that moment that nothing about it had been an accident. Luby, from Human Shield to If Not Now. Complete.
1. Fate

_So I've decided to start this with no real idea of when I'll have the chance to update, but sometime in the next month sounds like a plan. But I've been craving a look into those few weeks between "Human Shield" and "If Not Now" and goshdarnit if I have the patience to wait until finals are over. Girl's gotta have some fun. So here it is, in all it's un-beta'd glory, I do hope you enjoy it and I'll be likely to update as soon as another mood swing is upon me._

Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart.

Confucius

They'd almost diverged from the footpath destiny had chosen for them…he with his numbed relationship with a blonde who made him feel needed, one who came equipped with a child who almost looked at him the way a son might, and no need to think, to consider if it was what he really wanted, or needed, or loved, because it was there, it was constant, it was almost like a home. And he could play the protector, the stabilizer, the rock, without ever having to emote or truly love them, but it was all he'd needed for the moment, anyway. And she with a spitfire relationship with someone who loved her for what she could be, fucked her for what he imagined her to be, came just that close to marrying her for what he hoped it could fix, and she let herself be carried for once because, goddamn it, he knew more than she'd imparted already and for once she needed the release of not having to explain. But she did, of course, explain and excuse, and for what, really, but pity and disappointment. Leave it to the ones who knew her to leave the most scathing reminders of her shortcomings.

The paths had almost come to a crossing on more than one occasion, opportunities really, that went unfulfilled, unanswered. Fate tempting, gauging if they were ready for the forces of nature to stage a grand coup upon them, and they either weren't or nature was busy with other scheming as lips went untouched, words went unsaid, truths left untold. It had happened then by the river, just after the Congo, and again in that look she'd given him upon arriving for a consult, his face a mix of pride and shock and want. And the time that night at his apartment, playing Pictionary and the time when she'd needed someone but he hadn't answered and all those other almost-moments when the muses hadn't felt it right to give them each a swift jolt. And so it happened then, on that night, the night the road less traveled became the only road, really, the road she'd been fumbling down her whole life yet had simply stumbled a little too often. And he was there when she stumbled that night to catch her, lips and all.

Her feet hadn't really listened to her mind, they never did. She'd told them to go home, sink themselves into the oblivion of reality television and a gallon of cookie dough, but they'd known better than to listen and had gotten off at a vaguely familiar spot and known the way to his door without heeding the screaming mind. And he'd opened the door. And she'd gone in. And she'd let him see her vulnerability…the wounds, the raw, stinging fears and insecurities, and tears, tears she never let loose in front of anyone, shaking and sobbing and frantic and then his mouth had landed on hers and it had been just right. Tasting of promise and no conditions and desire, desire for all of her, wounds and insecurities and tears and all. Clothes stripped away with inhibitions. His fingers lacing through hers as he lay her on the bed, warm and solid above, kissing her with resolve that she would know he meant for more than the night, stroking her shoulder and whispering how absolutely beautiful she was and he'd almost forgotten and it hadn't been intentional, thank god she hadn't heard him, when he kissed her throat and murmured he loved her.

She hadn't known how long she'd been in limbo, not quite alive, not quite dead, until the moment of union, his body snug against hers as he moved into her slowly, painstakingly, knowing they'd been feigning naiveté as to how much both had craved this moment when all the physical intimacy they'd mastered met with the emotional one building those past years. She gasped, weaving herself in and around him as he made love to her, that was what it was, exactly, completely, him making love to her as she clung to his body, desperate and unsure but wanting it all the same. Fingers stroking at the tendrils of chestnut hair at the base of her neck, mouth brushing over her collarbone and jaw and temples, and damnit if she wasn't crying through the whole thing, little mixed sobs of ecstasy and relief and still those swelling emotions that had brought her there. He could sense every feeling and thought in her as he lavished her with affection, brought his hands to her face to bring her gaze to his before kissing her, hard, twisting tongues together and drinking her fears through her lips to swallow as his own, leaving her nothing but overcome with how right it all felt as his rich kisses and soft groans brought her far past any fathomable point, choking out his name, _his_, not Carter's or Jake's or Richard's or anybody else, but his, only his, as she came and he came with her, falling on top of her. His mouth still on her neck, the pounding pulse tickling his lips as he remembered the silky-smooth skin, allowing her a respite from thought as his tongue traced the curves of her ear before she rolled to face him and kissed him for the first time of her own intent, still shaking, but more sure than she'd recalled being about everything as arms tangled and legs twined and this time, it was mutual, making love to one another with a ferocity and fury that neither anticipated or planned, and she knew she'd been meant to end up there, in his apartment, in his bed, in his arms, in his life.


	2. Sleep

The repose of sleep refreshes only the body. It rarely sets the soul at rest. The repose of the night does not belong to us. It is not the possession of our being. Sleep opens within us an inn for phantoms. In the morning we must sweep out the shadows.

Gaston Bachelard

Sleep had eluded her since they'd parted ways, agreed to leave it at friendship, dodging fate yet again. Nature had clearly felt she deserved punishment for her transgression, dragging her from slumber every night that week to slap her across the face with another image of him as sleep teased her, lucid images and recollections making rest impossible. His skin was always scalding in the waking dream, hot and slick with perspiration as they tumbled in mutual passion over one another, gasping and choking and moaning with far more intensity than she recalled in daylight. It had been there, that night, the intensity, but this was a different sort, a force of remembered passion and regretful longing, to change her mind, change his, slide into those indescribably steady arms and fall back against him yet again, gasping for air as her every sense was awakened. Now all she had was the awakened part, and with far less of the delicious kisses and glorious sensation that she craved. Sheets tangled around her as she crept out of bed the fourth time that week, moaning and muttering as she stumbled to the darkened kitchen to remove a carton of orange juice and throw back the closest thing to a shot of tequila she had. God, how she wanted one. To tilt her head back and forget as it burned down her throat, erase the memory, if even for a few hours, of how insatiably right it all had felt. Her body felt heavy enough to collapse the refrigerator as she leaned back against it, reveling in the coolness it emitted. A shudder went up her, recalling him blowing a stream of chilly breath onto a freshly kissed neck, how her blood had ceased to run under his touch, every hair on her body standing up. Her foot collided with the wall next to the stove as she cursed it, him, the undeniable want that still lingered in her. Had always lingered in her.

Hot water pounded her from the showerhead, each pulse of steam beating the recollection out of her, knocking the sense she tried to formulate into her. She couldn't ruin the easy friendship they'd built, wasn't ready to engage in something that would rehash her past, didn't need to complicate life further. It had been a risk that night, one they'd seemingly moved past, she couldn't take the same one again. And Jesus, it couldn't have been the most presence of mind she'd had recently. Or ever. She'd known perfectly well what she was doing, the possibilities, the thousands of reasons not to, done it anyway. Indulged in the forbidden, or something of the sort. The pit of her stomach said otherwise. Not so forbidden. A sneaking suspicion that, given the chance, he'd do it again in an instant nagged her. Tempted. Ached.

Not far across town, the silence and darkness of midnight were all too reminiscent of that knock on the door of a week before. He flipped through channels, half expecting, half hoping to hear the faint tap of her knuckles on the door, but nothing. Nothing. Exactly the word for his life of late. Empty, flat, devoid. Nothing. How long had that been the case, really? He couldn't honestly claim he'd been feeling, living, throughout the relationship with Sam. In retrospect, it had been just as numb as ever. Maybe more. If he'd let himself feel, stepped outside himself and taken stock of it all, he'd have seen how mechanical he'd become. In truth, the last time he'd felt anything real had been in the Congo, with a gun to his head, life flashing before his eyes. Except…except for that night. When she'd revealed herself in all her vulnerable beauty and opened a wound to him, only to him, offered herself, and he'd seized the opportunity and then some. He had felt. Felt immense emotion, want, instinct, all of it. All of what he'd missed. All of what had eluded him for years, back in one tangible form, one opportunity taken for granted and lost. The words had lay in the back of his throat as she nodded and smiled and left it at friendship, stillborn words as he turned to watch her go. The urge to follow her and pull her into a kiss still gnawed at him. He could taste it – her lips, her passion, her soul creeping desperately close to his as their bodies intermingled and connected in a way he hadn't experienced in far too long if ever. Intensity beyond comprehension. And now simply a memory he'd dredge up on those lonely nights that he knew would come without pity. He took another swig of the bitter liquid in and fell back into the cushions to await the mercy of sleep.


	3. Synchrony

Run your fingers through my soul. For once, just once, feel exactly what I feel, believe what I believe, perceive as I perceive, look, experience, examine, and for once; just once, understand.

- Anonymous

If it had been possible, in the moments before they kissed, to taste the tension in the air, it would have tasted of something thick and rich, sweet, luscious, heavy. Forbidden wants and secret desires and six years of repressed urges coupled with a week and a half of flat-out, bitter, bile-flavored denial as they nodded and smiled and pretended neither could recall the feeling of skin on skin. His lips were like honey on hers, melting over her, distinctly his and god but she'd craved them again, warm and soft and smooth. Their motions were awkward, jerky, within the confines of his car, but it was irrelevant until she hit her head on the rearview mirror. They were both gasping for air as she managed the word "inside" and they clambered up the stairs, awkward, noisy, shamelessly obvious to her neighbors as they moved without the slightest bit of grace or dignity towards her door, simply wanting that contact again, ultimate contact, crawling within one another, relinquishing the carefully constructed divide.

Clothes came off unceremoniously, ripped hems and loose buttons as he fell and she followed onto the bed, clinging to each other with a sense of impending doom should the contact be broken, her kisses more like she was attempting to drink his soul through his lips then drew back, lips still brushing his skin, to offer a final, half-hearted, breathy hint of reason. He pushed her over, under him, glowing with perspiration and lust, not even kissing but tasting her innermost secrets through perfect rosy lips as he hushed her with an assuredness he was rarely capable of, but of this, of her, he was sure. He touched her that night, felt her, worshipped her in a way she'd never experienced, touched her very soul as nothing she'd ever realized possible came to a shattering catharsis.

She could feel his eyes on her before she was even fully aware it was morning, watching her as he'd done so many mornings before, and a sudden chill reminded her she'd missed it, this intimacy with another person, not just anyone, but him. She'd told Carter once he could never read her moods, but in retrospect, it wasn't quite true, it was more that he felt them in some inexplicable way, had an understanding of her being that didn't warrant any tangible acknowledgement. As though he could reach into her and touch the very fibres of her being, weave them through his fingers, feel whatever it was lingering inside her that desperately craved solace.

It only now occurred to her the position she was in, snug against his form, head in the crook of his arm, one hand laced with his, residing in tandem just over his heart. She never slept this way. She sprawled, claimed the bed as her own, reaffirmed her vicious independence even in slumber, no one to hold her, no one to fence her in. And yet this…this felt right. Close, intimate in a way she'd never bothered to realize she missed. Or needed.

Thick chestnut locks slid over his skin as she slid up him, both naked, bare, and she let one leg drape over his, one arm still in his grasp, until she came face to face with a pair of eyes that spelled out nothing but the most sincere desire to be nowhere but right there. The swelling instinct within that so often drove her to flee, had only a week or so ago, suddenly faded as his lips curled into an easy smile. His voice was barely audible as he breathed over her skin. "Hi."

"Hi."

A hand laid across her face, light and tender as his lips brushed over hers, the faintest memory of a kiss, then another, sure, firm, as he left her abuzz with a sensation. The urge to smile was beyond compelling, a lazy grin creeping over her face as he simply continued to watch her, intent, intense, his expression unreadable. They lay, breathing in perfect synchrony, chocolate brown gaze matching grey. He lifted two fingers to her temple, pushing back a strand of silky hair that fell across her cheek to replace it with a subtle kiss, lingering over her skin as his lips left her. The words came out like a warm current, wrapping and enveloping her. "You're beautiful."

The rest, all the connotations and implications and explanations, went unsaid. Neither needed to vocalize. She knew then, that nagging sense finally at bay, that it was a genuine statement on his part, that he'd never meant those words in the dark he spat at her all those years ago. That the covert eyes on her that she couldn't see but could sense had been his, watching, waiting, wanting. That all the glances and almost-moments had been more than her imagination. His lips found hers again as they formed a tangled embrace, simply weaving two souls together in delicious harmony.


	4. Listening

"When the future hinges on the next words that are said, don't let logic interfere, believe your heart instead."

Philip Robison

His shift ended earlier than hers…a simply scheduling issue that made everything ten times as complicated as he left her with a pointed glance and the few words that spun in her head for the remaining hours. "Come to my place?"

She hadn't answered…hadn't known how. The morning had been simple, shy smiles and kisses and less-than-accidental contact, but nothing to define them as of yet. Not until now, as he asked her far more than just for her presence, but for acknowledgement that this, indeed, was it, a thing, a fling, something more perhaps, but them, together. Again. And so she'd smiled at him from the corner of her eye and said nothing. Now, from the bottom step of his front stoop, she sucked in air like it could, somehow, accumulate within to form some semblance of understanding as to just what she was about to enter into.

Her foot on the first step, and she had her answer. She was about to engage in something that had two possible outcomes, without the slightest trace of middle ground. Either she'd lose the one person she quite possibly felt more connected to than any other in her lifetime, or she'd subject herself to a sort of intimacy that scared the sweet Jesus out of her. He knew more of her secrets than a friend could possibly hope to, half of them unspoken that he'd simply managed to absorb through some sexual osmosis. And he wanted her more than any friend could possible contain, of that, she was sure. They would not slide easily back into the roles of ex-lover that they'd managed before. She would lose him, or she would gain him.

Foot on the second step, and she stopped and closed her eyes suddenly, once again sucking in the cold night, desperate for an answer. The pounding in her heart was deafening in the still air around her, and she listened as it screamed and shouted to her all the terrifying things her mind refuted.

The third step and fourth were automatic, the fifth numb, and the final, the sixth, insurmountable as she stood, trapped, just below the ledge of it, uncertain, unsure, unwilling to admit how very much she wanted, had always wanted, to climb that last step. Knuckles white on the rail, shivering not from the cold but from the magnanimity of it all, her foot settled on the concrete with a finality that told her all she'd needed to know. She wanted to be here and had for longer than she had known only moments ago. Not simply at the top step to this building, but _here_, sure of what she felt, sure of where to go. Ready and willing.

The elevator was quite possibly the kindest appliance she'd encountered in her lifetime, thoughtlessly whirling her upwards to his door where she hesitated only the slightest as she knocked and the door opened to reveal he'd been waiting. She stood, paralyzed, just at the threshold as he surveyed her as an artist might survey a Renoir, a Degas, with the utmost respect for the beauty beheld. His lips crept into a smile at her wild eyes. "Coming in?"

One last breath, this one of wood finish and musty interior and the faintest scent of something roasting in the kitchen, and she gave a small nod and entered that place that had long terrified her to find it welcoming her with open arms.


	5. Dancing

"I see dance being used as communication between body and soul, to express what it too deep to find for words."

Ruth St. Denis

Two days of uninterrupted bliss quieted the whirlwind of objections in her mind. Gentle kisses, warm embraces, lazy mornings, shared smiles…all of it deliciously right as never before. There hadn't been a night alone since they'd reestablished the status quo, and she had, for her part, no objections. He seemed equally content as he trotted after her like a lovesick puppy on the third night, up the steps of her apartment, into the living room, right up to her where he grasped her from behind and somehow, in that magical way he had, slid her coat off without ever breaking his hold on her. She leaned back into him as though eager to simply melt into and over and around him, hugging him without turning around, eyes closed, reveling. A low chuckle emerged from his throat as he began to sway slowly to some music within that only he heard and which she decided was terribly off-tempo. She spun to inform him as such and threw a wink over one shoulder as she slid a disc into the stereo and sidled up to him, hands firm on his waist. He didn't have to question who had the lead as she smiled up at him with an affection she hadn't looked at anyone with in ages. "Let me show you how it's done."

He grinned and bent to kiss her before murmuring a familiar phrase. "Luka don't dance."

She purred softly to him as the first rich notes of Ella Fitzgerald's voice filled the small apartment. "Luka dances if Luka wants to get lucky."

He groaned with the ultimatum, powerless to her at the particular moment. Her hands tightened on his waist as she pressed her torso into him, guiding him with the music. One hand inched up to rest at the nape of his neck, the other twining with his at their side. Her voice was full of a rare calm as she spoke. "I may not be a ballroom sort of girl, but I know how it's done."

Further words were unnecessary as she guided him with her, in methodical unison as the slowest of dances eliminated the last bit of space between them and a sense of relaxed harmony fell over them both, her face pressing into his rumpled shirt as she breathed in his scent, musk mixed with hospital aromas mixed with something uniquely him that she delighted in after so long without. His thumb caressed the back of her hand as though spelling out words that neither bothered to define. Slowly, he reached their clasped hands down to move the hair from in front of her face, gazing down at her with a placid look filled with an adoration he'd forgotten he was capable of feeling. What her mother had said so long ago about him staring at her when she wasn't looking had carried through the years. He looked at her now in the same way, a quiet awe. It had once made her squirm, made her blush furiously at the discomfort of being on some pedestal, yet now it made her reach up to bring his face down to meet her in a kiss, warm and sweet as his hold on her waist tightened, bringing her close as though for fear he might lose her again.

She couldn't fight the urge to lean more deeply into him, clinging to his sturdy frame as his tempo slowed and evened to her approval, swaying with the rich notes as her head spun with the feeling of being in this strange place called romance that she'd forgotten she enjoyed.


	6. Babylon

"I only wish that you were here, you know I'm seeing it so clear, I've been afraid...to show you how I really feel, admit to some of those bad mistakes I've made. And if you want it, come and get it, for cryin' out loud. The love that I was givin' you was never in doubt. Let go of your heart, let go of your head, and feel it now."

David Gray, "Babylon"

What was it that had kept her from this for so long? It was a question that had echoed in her mind every second since that first delicious kiss. It had felt so right, so damned _perfect_, as though this was the thing she'd been unconsciously waiting on for years. She remembered those moments, barely even aware of them, in which she'd had a flash of regret for ever losing him, a moment of "what-if", an urge to grab onto him and never let go, and still, she hadn't. No relationship had ever felt so thoroughly right to her as this. Every smile cast from across the room at her sent shivers up her spine, the realization sinking in yet again that this was something. Something unlike anything. The fear that usually accompanied a relationship was almost entirely absent, every doubt swept from her mind at the thought that caught up to her every minute of the day that she was falling faster than ever before, no less for someone whom she cared for and trusted and understood in ways she'd never felt with anyone else. That was her singular fear – that this was intensely, positively, absolutely the first time in as long as she could remember that a future lingered just in front of her to accompany the past that usually was her downfall. That she could see this lasting. That, as much as it terrified her to admit it, she _wanted_ it to. And couldn't for the life of her understand how she'd put that aside all these years.

She didn't need to ask him that question that would've ordinarily nagged at her. He showed her beyond all reason of a doubt. He'd wanted her since that lightheaded, giddy kiss in the ambulance bay and never once stopped. He'd loved her, no less, something she felt but wasn't ready to acknowledge. Yet everything – every smile she'd missed seeing on his face, every rich, warm laugh she hadn't heard from him in such quantity and quality, every kiss laced with more sincerity and tenderness than she recalled him capable of – told her. They'd been together a handful of days and already it felt as though they'd spent the past months in such mutual adoration. She'd been afraid, at first, of his gusto, his overwhelming desire to touch her, hold her, be with her at every moment, and then came to the gripping realization one evening, on the bottom step of his apartment once again, that she had nowhere to be but in his arms.

It had been more of a knee-jerk reaction that she'd begged off spending the night, claiming she had to clean and pay bills, though honestly, she didn't. He'd watched her go, standing at the door as though someone had just slapped him across the face, unwilling to let her go and yet unwilling to argue. She'd made it as far as the bottom step before it dawned on her that she'd been a complete idiot. And so she'd turned, hurried up the steps, up the elevator, to knock gingerly on his door to find him grinning madly, lift her from the waist to bring her inside, not even bothering to ask if she'd perhaps just forgotten something before his foot slammed the door shut and she was being pulled down onto the couch under assault from his lips, oozing happily into his arms, there of her own want and her own accord and her own realization that she didn't want to leave anytime in the foreseeable future, fears and insticts and doubt be damned.


	7. Kiss

"Soul meets soul on lover's lips."

by Percy Bysshe Shelly

She'd been tentative to bring it up, the thing that had gotten them there, the almost-did-almost-didn't moment that had caught them so off-guard, but lying in bed next to him, drowsy and uninhibited from lovemaking, she let the question slip out amid the safety of his soft embrace. "Why did you kiss me that night?"

A pause as he took in whatever it was he had to take in gave her time to lay her head over his bare chest, the faint thudding of his heart under her ear spelling out assurances that he was really there, really holding her, really tangled between the sheets alongside her. Fingers wove through her hair, caressing. "Have you ever wanted something for so long you forget it's right in front of you?"

It was rhetorical, but she nodded nonetheless.

"I didn't…" He shifted under her, gathering her close, breathing in her sweet scent as she curled around him, "I didn't plan it. I just…" He struggled to vocalize, never one for blunt truths nor confessions nor romantic metaphors and equally conflicted by the words in his mind that didn't translate to plain English. "You're beautiful when you cry."

She looked up, startled by his answer. "What do you mean?"

He didn't quite know himself, halfway between the right and wrong answer. "Vulnerable. And just…I don't know." He swallowed hard. "You never let me in before."

God, if it wasn't the most eloquent jumble of words she'd ever half understood. The words themselves melted away from the meaning like layers of wax, dripping onto her; warm, melty little bits of himself, and she slithered up him to land her lips over his, hands tangling though his hair, suddenly and overwhelmingly desperate. Kissing him was far beyond any pleasure she'd felt from orgasm, any calm she'd felt from a cigarette, any relief she'd felt from a beer, anything. Safe in every possible sense, welcome as though his lips were a door mat for her alone, irresistible more than any temptation she'd encountered and delicious, fantastic, perfect, lush kisses she could fall headfirst over heels into and never recover. He drew her into his body as though he could have all of her if he only asked, and she'd give him just that at the particular moment if he had. Skin on skin as bare and raw as emotions, he brought her under him to look down upon this thing, this woman, this being he'd craved without realizing it for so long. The connect was mutually flawless as though rehearsed and suddenly the concept of making love was clear-cut, creating love out of the ingredients they had, the desire, the understanding, the respect for one another and complete sensation that this was the only moment that mattered, the frustration, the hope, the rush as they moved in syncopated bliss, soft murmurs of his name slipping from her throat, soft admissions in another language he still couldn't translate from his. He kissed her as they came in harmony, soft breaths tickling one another as they crumpled together, proximity to one another ultimate in body and soul as fingers wove together and hearts pounded in unison.


	8. If Ever

_A/N: Revised due to logistical errors. Once again in debt to Bel Vezer._

"Oh soul, you worry too much.

You have seen your own strength.

You have seen your own beauty.

You have seen your golden wings.

Of anything less, why do you worry?

You are in truth the soul, of the soul, of the soul."

- Jalal ad-Din Rumi

She should have seen it when she fell asleep that time a few days ago…in the midst of lovemaking, no less, something she was generally quite invested in. She should've seen it when she flinched at his embrace, sharp pains shooting through her. She should've seen it when she was too nauseous for coffee, something indicative of hell freezing over.

But she didn't.

She didn't want to see it.

Until she saw the calendar.

She'd been late before. As an intern, she'd gone through three or four store-bought pregnancy tests, what with lack of sleep and excessive amounts of stress throwing her for countless loops. But it had never really been more than a day or so late, three at the most. But four days…four days was something different. Something that sent a shiver up her spine.

Because she couldn't be.

Not now.

If ever.

She'd worked too hard to let things slip away from her. Everything was so perfectly in its place. She had a job she loved. She was sober. She was stable. And she was with Luka.

_Luka._

She was with Luka and he'd – no.

He hadn't.

Had he?

Ignoring her body's signs was like ignoring an oncoming train while standing on the tracks. Impossible in every sense of the word. She gave herself a full week, hoping it was stress from a new relationship, too much time at work. She gave herself another day after that, in case it was a bug or something else equally convenient. And then, at a full ten days late, she took a vial of hCG strips from lockup and hid them in the deepest recesses of her linen closet…as though somehow that would be enough. Having the strips, accepting it was possible, would be enough to make it disappear.

Because she couldn't be.

Not now.

If ever.

It wasn't until she was ten days and seventeen hours late that a wave of nausea so powerful it stopped her in her tracks, doubled her over, and drenched her with fear, hit, that she reached into the linen closet again. Half-crouched on the tile of her bathroom floor, _thank goodness he was working_, halfway between retching and praying, she unscrewed the cap.

Her hands were shaking. The first strip fluttered from her trembling fingers to the toilet like a dainty little butterfly, carefree and fanciful. She cursed the thing. The second she stared at so long, she was fairly sure she'd damaged it in her white-fingertipped grasp. The third she was shaking so badly she ruined it, followed suit with fourth and fifth.

Number six. Number six, do or die. Semper fie, do or die, carpe diem, all of it. Carpe the damn thing and piss on it. She cursed under her breath at actually managing to succeed with this one; half disappointed she hadn't ruined it as well. She laid it out carefully, against the color sheet, though she didn't have to. It was blue. Blue as that damn shirt he'd worn the other night to dinner. Blue as the surgeons' scrub tops. Blue as…well, blue. She hated blue.

_Baby blues._

Perhaps there was a reaction she hadn't been aware of. Some drug interaction that gave a false positive – something she hadn't read up on. A mix of caffeine, club soda, and the melatonin she took to sleep now and then that threw off her hormone levels.

The PDR yielded nothing. Not a single relief. But still…a blood test was the only sure indication. The strips were probably old. Maybe tainted by the mothballs in her linen closet.

Because she couldn't be.

He couldn't have.

She couldn't face this, not now, if ever. She wasn't strong enough, she wasn't loving enough, she wasn't in love enough. She wasn't sure enough of him and of them for this to be possible. She wasn't young enough to be able or old enough to be ready.

She wasn't brave enough to acknowledge that tiny leap of her heart.

She couldn't be.

Not now.

If ever.


	9. Questioning

There's a fossil that's trapped in a high cliff wall

_That's my soul up there _

There's a dead salmon frozen in a waterfall

_That's my soul up there_

There's a blue whale beached by a springtime's ebb

_That's my soul up there_

There's a butterfly trapped in a spider's web

Sting, "King of Pain"

Lying next to him, she feigned sleep. Eyes closed, body still, breathing slow – the image of a peaceful slumber. Instead, beyond the outer placidity, her mind spun, ached, with unanswerable questions and unquestionable answers. Had he so much as touched her, she was sure her skin would break, taut over her bones to hold in the thousands of fears circling her insides like predator and prey, spill out like black tar onto the bedsheets to reveal her. Pregnant. She was _pregnant_. The word made her blood run cold within. Not because she didn't want to be…but because she did. Which scared her beyond anything.

She wanted a child. _His _child. It hadn't been something she'd planned on, but now, lying next to him, she wanted it. She'd thought about it before, motherhood, about how and when and why and she'd wanted it then as much as now. She wanted it and for that, she hated herself. She was not meant to be a mother. She could barely take care of herself, let alone another person. A tiny, vulnerable, fragile little person. A tiny little person who would need her to be strong and stable and sane, not insecure and incompetent and incapable of committing to anything. She barely had her own life sorted, as though held together by Scotch tape and balanced precariously on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the slightest breeze to shatter her normalcy into a thousand pieces. She was – always would be – an alcoholic, subject to relapse should something come along to shake her hard enough, send her spiraling back. How would she raise a child if she was constantly looking over her shoulder, waiting to fall back? How would she raise a healthy, normal child when she herself wasn't even that? And the disease. Oh, the disease. She had it there, somewhere in her genetics, waiting to prey on her offspring, waiting to plague another generation. No, to procreate, to pass it on willingly, it was beyond selfish. If she wanted the child, that was her own greed, her own desires. But would the child want to be? In a few years, when it came to realize its mother had cursed it with this disease, when it had to swallow the Depacote and the lithium and the psychobabble, then would it want to be? Or would it hate her for bringing it into the world so selfishly?

Heavy breaths shook her from her inner diatribe and she rolled to face him. Luka. Dark tufts of hair falling over his forehead as he slept, mouth ajar, snoring lightly. Dark lashes masking those eyes she could fall into and swim around in for hours on end…eyes that sparkled when he looked at her, and she knew…she _knew_ he'd want it. But for the right reasons? Would he want it simply because he should? Would he leap at the chance for fatherhood, and forget about her in the process? Or would he place every hope and fear and dream on this and she'd buckle under the weight, inevitably? She studied him, the man who made her feel so uncommonly good, who made her feel safe for the first time in years, who held her and kissed her and watched her when they made love, and she could feel it, there somewhere, the beginnings of love, or perhaps it was the rekindling. She didn't want it to be over, not now, not really ever. She hadn't felt so good in ages. And this would break them, either way. It had to. She couldn't give this to him, and even if she could, a nagging fear lay within, that he would stop wanting her for her and simply want what she carried. A tear slid from the corner of her eye, one lone, salty tear, echoes in her mind telling her that she'd lose him either way.

He shifted in his sleep, inching closer to her, muttering something incoherent as his skin brushed hers, fingers dancing over her shoulder, so completely delicate and loving even asleep. Her teeth bore down against her lower lip, fighting against the hot tears pooling under her cheekbones, creeping up, sliding over the lids of her eyes to spill down her cheeks and drench the soft tendrils of hair framing her face as deep inside, she ached. For answers…for clarity…for him to wrap his arms around her and fix everything with a kiss…for any of it and all of it.


	10. Gaze

"The soul that can speak through the eyes can also kiss with a gaze."

- Gustavo Adolfo Becquer

She'd wanted a more eloquent way to tell him, a more opportune moment, a more secluded and private place, and yet it had tumbled through her lips there on the street, amid the lightly falling snow, on Christmas Eve. Not an altogether terrible moment, but not what she'd envisioned it. Then again, she hadn't envisioned any of this, still couldn't be sure she wasn't having some strange dream. A dream or a nightmare? She hadn't yet decided. Things hadn't become any clearer in the few days she'd waited to tell him…if anything, they'd only become more clouded. And yet when he'd given her the compass, when he'd said those things, she'd known. She had to tell him, then and there, and so it had fallen inevitably from her lips and he'd looked very much like she'd spoken to him in some indistinguishable foreign language.

They stood, eyes locked, hers searching his, for all of a few seconds, and yet it seemed like the better part of an hour to her. His face, the picture of disbelief, eyes wide, mouth opening slightly to say something, but no words came. Of course they didn't. What could he possibly say to that? She half expected him to take off down the street and never look back, but he stood there, very still, until whatever had frozen him there seemed to break and he stepped forward to fold her into his arms. She hadn't expected it, but had unconsciously craved exactly that, his warmth enveloping her, assuring her she hadn't messed things up, hadn't betrayed him somehow, hadn't driven him off. Without thinking, she slid her arms around his torso, under the wool of his coat, clinging to him for dear life, face buried in his chest. She could feel his lips on the crown of her head, reassuring. And then came the whisper. The one she'd needed more than anything. "It's okay."

She looked up at him finally, a desperation on her face unrivaled by any look she'd ever given anyone, pleading. "Luka, I don't…I'm not…"

He repeated himself, this time more sure. "It's okay." And then his head dipped and his lips met hers, gently, tenderly, sweetly, kissing her, and all the fear and confusion melted away for that one moment. "It's okay." His forehead rested against hers, gazing at her closed lids, lips pursed against the tears that she wouldn't let come, and sighed softly, a little puff in the cold air. "Let's go home."

She nodded, grateful, as his arm slid around her waist and they began walking. Without a word, he guided her down the empty street. Her body pressed against him, head tucked into his chest, they walked in the cold night, snowflakes falling faster as his hand found hers, twining fingers together, a deeper understanding of everything she didn't say than she'd expected apparent in his movement, slow, calm, neither somber nor joyful, simply there with her and for her and by her. He stopped as they approached his car, eyes intent on hers, telling her a thousand things in one gaze and she could feel the biting cold fade as he looked at her and bent again to kiss her lightly, the snow and the chill now gone and a sense of safety and warmth from his lips spreading over all of her.


	11. Heart and Soul

"Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams..."

- Paulo Coelho

The path she had chosen on that night, when she went to him for solace and found redemption, seemed eons ago. It was another lifetime, one in which she hadn't been stifled by possibilities and fears. If fate had taken her there, had it planned this as well? She walked numbly from the cold sterility of the examination room, thoughts in tangles. She'd never even undressed. It had all come crashing down on her like icy water. She wanted this child with every fibre of her being. It was only the voice of fear that sang taunting insecurities, of why she shouldn't and why she couldn't. And yet, she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that if she gave up this chance, it would haunt her unrelentingly. She couldn't do this simply out of fear. This was for her, moreso than anything she'd ever done. What she wanted in spite of her insecurities. It hadn't been enough that he wanted it. It hadn't been enough that he'd given her that look, the one that left her feeling as though she'd reached out and torn his heart into shreds. It had to have come from her. And it had, in that moment, when she stared at the exam table, the tray of sterile instruments, and backed away, not willing to surrender the possibility within.

She walked along the river, craving a few moments of solace to sort through what she'd just done. The magnanimity of it…the implications…the bond she'd just forged between herself and a man she felt something deeply and utterly confusing for…and what would come, in a matter of months. A baby. Her baby. A life she would be responsible for, to nourish, to teach, to protect. Her head spun, from what she couldn't be sure. She sank onto a bench, the frigid air inconsequential as it nipped at her cheeks. The river ahead of her seemed alive with activity despite the stagnant appearance, as though in suspended animation. She wondered, for a moment, if that had been her, trapped between fight and flight, not quite living, not quite dead. In limbo. Everything in her life, what had been, what would be, resting in a delicate balance.

She knew whom the footsteps belonged to. The snow crunched as he drew near, and she wondered what he thought of her, believing she'd done it, believing she'd taken away his chance. In that moment, did he still want her, or did he simply feel the urge to comfort her until the time came when he wouldn't feel guilty letting her go? He spoke softly, his tone flat and unaffected. Though she knew he would be. Was. Would be even moreso in a matter of minutes.

"I went by your place, but I figured you might come home this way."

Fate had brought them both this way. With a purpose and a challenge, and she knew in that moment that nothing about it had been an accident. It was all predetermined that she would go to him, seeking refuge. That he would kiss her and mean it, every implication. That they would make love and life in one evening. That she'd run from it and then find her way back to the only place she truly belonged. That he'd be there to catch her, all of her, without reservation, and that they'd have this chance. This opportunity. This miracle of nature that bound them for the rest of their lives without question or reason. And she would fall in love with him, perhaps already had, with everything she possessed. Heart and soul.


End file.
